


a little fun (not the number one)

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aromantic Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton-centric, Deaf Clint Barton, Feelings Realization, Friends With Benefits, Idiot Steve Rogers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mastermind Bucky Barnes, Multi, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Oral Sex, POV Clint Barton, Pining, Polyamory, Semi-Public Sex, Smoking, Snarky Clint Barton, Steve is bossy, The Stucky Is Less Blatant Because It's Clint POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 22:46:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19778017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: “They have friends with benefits in the old days?”“Probably,” Steve says, takes a drag. “I just had Bucky.”





	a little fun (not the number one)

**Author's Note:**

> My fond nickname for this ship is "Bucky: oh god there's two of them" and that really shows here. I'm not sorry.

“Have you seen Cap? He missed the debrief.”

“No,” Natasha answers Tony. “Try his floor, maybe.”

Clint squeezes his eyes shut so hard he sees colours he’s not even sure _exist _,__ sucks in a tight gasp. The three fingers already in his ass keep moving relentlessly and the twists of pleasure up his spine are making it harder and harder not to make a noise. A noise that would undoubtedly alarm the teammates walking past this particular storage closet in the Avengers Compound. Instead he grabs helplessly for the muscled chest in front of him, scrapes his fingernails along the white star on the uniform as he muffles his moan by sinking his teeth into the junction of Steve’s neck and his shoulders.

The suit tastes like dirt and blood under his mouth and Clint squirms on the narrow bench he’s perched on, making it creak alarmingly. He cringes and Steve’s fingers somehow manage to get even more brutal after that. It’s so _good_ but Natasha and Tony are probably still within earshot and he’s going to die, either from the swirl of heat in his gut or by being sprung by Stark, who’d never let them hear the end of it.

“Be _quiet_ , Clint,” Steve scolds, voice low but still loud enough to send a spark of fear through Clint.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses back, breath hitching embarrassingly as Steve’s other hand wraps around his erection. “’m _trying_ , this is your fault for deciding you couldn’t wait until we got to your room.”

“So you’d be fine if I just left, then?” Steve offers, and Clint glares at him before getting his heel hooked around Steve’s narrow hips to yank him closer. It turns out that under all that American wholesomeness and language-talk Captain America is a fucking asshole, and a _tease_.

Unfortunately for Steve, Clint is just as bad, and as he drops one hand to squeeze at Steve’s cock through his underwear he gets a satisfying noise from Steve. The fingers wrapped around his own dick slow down, enough for him to focus on shoving Steve’s underwear down to join his uniform pants. Satisfied he’s stripped the man at least enough for a proper fucking, Clint scoots a little closer to the edge of the counter and tugs Steve down into a kiss that’s mostly teeth.

Steve gets the hint, then, because he’s pulling his fingers out and then pushing his cock in before Clint can get the opportunity to complain. He’s learning, apparently. Clint’s still got one hand fisted in his hair and he yanks on it as Steve starts a pace that just barely on the right side of rough. Steve’s other hand is still jerking him off and Clint tips his head back and gasps, still trying not to be loud. It’s hard, because he’s normally swearing and snarking the whole time and being quiet is not something in his repertoire.

Anyone who thought Captain America was a blushing virgin is _miserably_ wrong.

Steve fucks him the way he completes a mission; thorough, effective, and more than a little rough. Clint likes it. Oh god, he likes it so much, and it’s impossible to keep all the sounds bottled in when Steve’s cock is hard and relentless and Clint’s sure he’s going to lose his mind like this. _Man Dies Being Dicked Down By Captain America-_ Clint lets out a soft whining noise he’s never going to admit to when Steve’s hand speeds up and so do his thrusts.

“Fuck,” he hisses, hoping like hell Tony and Natasha moved. “ _Fuck_ , Steve, I’m-”

“Do it,” Steve orders, and Clint’s never followed instructions in his life but he’s willing to work with this one. He arches against Steve’s chest as he comes, feels the material of the suit drag against his bare skin.

Steve keeps fucking him and jerking him off, after, and Clint has to bite down on the suit again to muffle the embarrassing whimpers. His legs twitch against Steve’s hips and every thrust sends little oversensitive sparks up his spine until he’s openly making noises that are _way_ too loud, pulling on Steve’s hair again. Clint shudders so hard that Steve’s free hand reaches out to hold one shaking thigh and push it up to his chest. He knows exactly what Steve’s trying to do, here, but he’s helpless to stop it and the overwhelmed sob escapes him before he can stop it, tears pricking at his eyes.

Steve’s thrusts stutter and then grind down to a halt as he comes. Clint’s still trying to rein in his body’s reactions as the trembling continues, letting his leg drop down to a more comfortable angle when Steve lets go of it. For a minute he just tips his head forward into Steve’s muscled chest and tries to get his bearings. They breathe in silence, Steve’s a lot less laboured than Clint’s as he tries to stifle his hitching breaths. Steve’s a goddamn sadist, is what he is- ever since he’d figured out Clint got stupidly hypersensitive he’d been determined to drive Clint to tears every time they fucked.

“Fuck,” Clint rasps. “I know I said you were a stuck-up old man, but you’ve changed my mind. You’re a dirty, kinky old man and I’m a big fan.”

“Oh really?” Steve sounds amused. Clint can’t see his face, but he feels a soft pressure on top of his head and his brain blanks out in a different way because there’s no way Steve Rogers just _kissed his hair_ after fucking him senseless. Clint’s heart does a weird flopping thing inside his chest. “And here I thought you were the only one that didn’t like that hero worship stuff.”

“I don’t,” Clint says, pulls back and rubs at his face. “You realize you ripped all my clothes, right? I can’t even put my boxers back on. I’m not worshipping _shit_.”

“I’m sure JARVIS will help you get to your room without being spotted,” Steve answers calmly, but there’s amusement in his voice. “You’ll be fine, Clint.”

“You suck,” he grumbles, ignores the way Steve’s laugh makes him feel warm inside. “I’m never having sex with you again. You ruin all my clothes and you have a goddamn kink for fucking in public, you exhibitionist.”

It’s a blatant lie and Steve knows that, of _course_ he does, Clint’s never been good with controlling himself.

Clint knows, objectively, that he shouldn’t be fucking a national icon and superhero, but in his defence when he’d jokingly offered to take care of Steve’s hard-on after a battle, he hadn’t expected Steve to say yes, and he certainly hadn’t expected one messy blowjob to turn into _this_. This being Captain America, paragon of virtue and all that’s good in the world, dragging him off at every available opportunity to fuck. Clint definitely isn’t complaining- more the opposite. Steve’s enthusiastic and fun and also unfairly hot, definitely out of Clint’s league by a mile and a half. He _likes_ Steve, too, the way he doesn’t normally like the people he sleeps with, and it’s nice.

Clint’s sex life hasn’t been this athletic since he divorced Bobbi, and even then, it wasn’t quite as much fun. If he could write poetry, he’d write it about Steve’s dick.

They’re lying in bed one night as Clint stares at the ceiling and tries to catch his breath, one of his hands still splayed on Steve’s ass. It’s a nice place to have one’s hand, if one has permission to do so. Steve’s propped up on his elbows, a cigarette in his fingers lazily trailing smoke. It’s weird to think that Captain America smokes, which is why Clint’s pretty sure he’s the only one in this century who knows about it. Clint pats his ass, revels in the tiny thrill it brings. He’s _allowed_ to do this. It’s great. He sighs and leans back a little heavier against the pillows he’s propped up on.

“They have friends with benefits in the old days?”

“Probably,” Steve says, takes a drag. “I just had Bucky.”

“Those weren’t rumours?”

“No,” Steve answers. “It wasn’t- the stories about us were mostly fake, but I still loved him.”

“’s nice,” Clint says, feels warm in his chest. Steve rolls closer and Clint wraps an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer. He’s eternally grateful that their rooms have locks and he can just do this without having to worry about someone asking questions or making fun of him. It might be the circus background, it might be the spy training, or it might just be _Clint_ \- but he craves his privacy like nothing else. “Don’t see a lot of real love in this hell anymore.”

Steve stubs his cigarette on the convenient ashtray and leans in to kiss Clint instead, the taste of smoke heavy on his tongue. Clint’s aware in a distant sort of way that Steve’s tracing hands down his bare chest like he’s mapping it out, careful and precise. He draws back from the kiss and Clint watches his gaze slip down to look at the scarred skin. Steve runs his fingertips over a star-shaped piece above the curve of his hip, mild curiosity in those deep blue eyes when he looks back up at Clint’s face.

“What’s this one?”

“Arrow,” Clint answers. “My brother tried to shoot an apple off my head when we were kids. He missed.”

“No kidding,” Steve says, thumbing at the scar. They’d gotten in so much trouble from Trickshot for that stunt, bows taken away for a week. Clint’s just glad he hadn’t lost any vital organs from the shot. There’s plenty of things Barney’s done to him on purpose in comparison that make the arrow scar look like nothing. Steve’s fingers drift up to a jagged line just underneath his ribcage. “How about this?”

“Dresden,” he replies. “SHIELD ordered me to hunt down a guy. Problem was, the guy was waiting for me.”

The next one, Steve doesn’t say anything, just traces along the thin discoloured line running from just under his nipple to his stomach. “Natasha,” Clint supplies, remembering startled green eyes and a gauzy dress with gold sequins. He’d been wearing a waiter’s outfit, not quite as classy and definitely not thick enough to withstand her knife. “First time we met. She would’ve gutted me like a fish if I hadn’t managed to move in time.”

Steve looks up at his face then, something contemplative in his expression. “Would you get rid of them all, if you could?”

“Nah,” Clint says, looking at the mess of his own body and then at Steve’s, pristine and spotless, without even a freckle. Wonders if maybe he misses having that map of life on his skin. Apparently tattoos won’t even stick, which is a shame. Steve likes touching the little target silhouetted on Clint’s ankle. “It’s part of me, y’know? ‘s probably weird to be attached to _this_ but, yeah. They’re mine.”

“I like them,” Steve says. “They tell a story.”

Clint snorts. “A story of near-death experiences and missed shots.”

“Still,” Steve replies. He leans down to press a kiss against a circular scar on Clint’s ribs. It’s another one of those weirdly tender things Clint has no clue how to interpret whatsoever, and he feels his face heat up without permission. Luckily, Steve isn’t looking, so he doesn’t catch it. Clint, being Clint, quickly fishes for something to dissolve the urge to squirm into a ball and hide.

“You ever joined the mile-high club, Cap?”

Steve has not, as it turns out, and Tony gets very puzzled when he realizes Clint’s left the Quinjet on autopilot for the better part of an hour.

Clint doesn’t really care what he thinks, mostly because he’s fairly sure Steve sucked his brain out of his dick. Steve, on the other hand, just says that Clint wasn’t feeling too well and he was helping him in the bathroom. Clint has no clue how he lies that well- it seems like every stereotype about Captain America ends up being broken one way or another the longer Clint gets to know him. He's not very wholesome at all, when it comes down to it. Clint sits back in the pilot’s seat and gets the feeling he looks a little shellshocked still, because Natasha snorts and then pushes him into the co-pilot’s chair instead.

“Okay, we’re going to have to split up,” Tony says. “They’re too fast and they’ve spread out. I’ll take the one heading north, you can decide amongst yourselves where you want to be for the other three.”

Iron Man flies off with a whoosh that makes Clint’s hearing aids crackle ominously. He shakes his head to try and correct it and then glances around. Sam’s already pointing in one direction and Clint gestures to the east from his perch on the rooftops and tips his head at Natasha. She nods at him and he slings his bow over his shoulder and takes a running jump to the next building. He comes up in a roll and keeps going, watching the red figure push through the crowds down below. They’ve got the distinct disadvantage of being on the ground with civilians in the way, and Clint knows this area of Brooklyn like the back of his hand.

He doesn’t even need to fire a grappling arrow, just dropping onto a lower balcony and then onto the roof of a van before he lands in front of the startled looking goon. They’re holding a gun and squeeze off a shot at him. Clint blocks with his bow, grateful for the way he barely feels the bullet bounce off. He has a few seconds to kick the gun out of their hand and drop them to the ground, punching the red mask for good measure. They go limp under him and Clint sighs before sitting down on top of them. It’s more comfortable than it should be.

He looks up again when footsteps come towards him and he sees Steve, helmet off and hair askew. “Hey, what’s up,” he offers. “You guys catch the others?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “I was following you.”

“Didn’t think I could handle him?” Clint says the words lightly, but even he can hear the edge underneath. He’s always painfully aware he’s at a disadvantage on this team, but he’s far from incompetent. Sometimes Tony talks like he thinks Clint’s an idiot, but it’d hurt more coming from Steve, somehow. He doesn’t stop to analyze _why_.

“Not at all,” Steve answers, blinking at him like he hadn’t even considered the idea. He offers one gloved hand and Clint takes it, lets Steve pull him to his feet. “I knew you could. Even if you have a problem with authority.”

“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” Clint snorts. “Like you’ve ever listened to a single authority figure in your life.”

“Do as I say, not as I do,” Steve says dryly.

“Hypocrite,” Clint remarks.

He hooks his bow over his back and flexes his hands, stretching out the worn muscles. Before he has a chance to step away Steve’s getting closer. Clint’s about to make a quip about public indecency and then Steve’s fingers brush his jaw, thumb at his cheek in a way that’s gentle and, dare he say it, _soft_. He wasn’t aware that Steve _could_ touch him like this in a situation that wasn’t directly after sex, and it’s shocking enough that he stays where he is. Steve’s got a strange look on his face but he withdraws his fingers after a second, and Clint looks at his hand to realize Steve was wiping the blood off his face.

Huh.

He has no idea what that’s about, or why his stomach does a funny little flutter.

“You’re okay?”

“Fine,” he says. Steve’s still worryingly close, something unreadable in his eyes, and Clint’s registers that he’s leaning in at the same time Natasha appears behind them and coughs. Steve takes a careful step back and casually greets her, ignoring the way she lifts an eyebrow at Clint. Clint’s not sure what his face says. Probably something incriminating. His face tends to do that when he comes up against something that requires actual brainpower.

Clint’s about seventy percent sure that Steve Rogers was about to _kiss him,_ though, and he’s not sure what to do with that information.

“Fucking _hell_ ,” Clint says and Steve grunts in agreement, rolls off of him and onto the rumpled sheets.

Tony had tried to get him to put red, blue and white covers on his bed- Steve had vetoed it almost immediately, to everyone’s amusement. Instead, he and Clint are sprawled out on messy grey sheets as Clint tries to catch his breath and Steve reaches for the damp cloth he’d set out before they’d started. He starts wiping at Clint’s stomach carefully and Clint twitches but allows it, ignoring the now-familiar twist of his insides to reach for the pack of Marlboros and the lighter.

Once Steve’s done he passes the lit cigarette over without a word.

“Oh,” Steve says, taking it. His voice is soft and when Clint glances up at his face he’s doing that unreadable, complicated expression again.

“What’s up, Cap?”

“It’s nothing,” Steve says, settling down next to Clint again. Clint yawns and stretches, wonders if he can sneak in a nap before friends-with-benefits protocol kicks in and he has to leave. He doesn’t think he’ll move if he closes his eyes, though, so he valiantly stays awake for Steve’s sake. He sits up instead, knocks the back of his skull against the headboard in the hopes the dull pain will keep his eyes open. It doesn’t really work, though, because he’s warm and comfortable and Steve’s presence is starting to feel a lot like safety. “You want to go to the pizza joint down the road?”

“Hmm?” Clint turns his head to eye off Steve. “You know Sam’s going to complain about us having takeout all the time, right? Are you willing to sit through another round of passive-aggressive remarks about vegetables?”

“Right,” Steve says. “Sam. Of course.”

Clint doesn’t know what that faintly disappointed tone in Steve’s voice means.

“Why are you staring at me? Do I have something on my face? Please tell me it’s not glitter,” Clint says, taking in the look on Natasha’s face. It’s too early for this shit. He’s just opened a card from Simone’s kids and it had been absolutely _coated_ in the shit. It’s all over his room and there’s no hope of vacuuming it all up again. He’s going to kill whoever gave them that much glitter. It’s disgusting. He manages to get to the coffeepot and it’s still warm, Natasha passing over a mug so he won’t drink out of the pot.

“Sam found Barnes,” Natasha says. “Or, more accurately, Barnes found him. They’re heading back to the Compound.”

“Holy shit,” Clint says, nearly spits out his mouthful of coffee. All that chasing around the world for the guy and _what_ , he’s just decided that he’s coming to them on his own? What a weird guy. Then again, you can’t expect a guy with Barnes’ history to make sense. Steve must be over the moon. Clint sets down his purple H mug and Natasha scoops it up instead, takes a sip and grimaces at the taste. If she wanted classy coffee, she should’ve stolen Thor’s drink and not his. 

“Should we make a cake or something?”

He directs the question at Natasha and she raises one shoulder in a shrug, takes another drink of his coffee. Do frozen ex-assassins like chocolate cake? This is a thing they should probably celebrate, so it makes sense to have a cake ready. If Clint’s honest, he’ll take any minor excuse to have a cake to eat. Cake is delicious. He opens the fridge and looks to see if they have ingredients. There’s a brown banana, Chinese takeout and a copious amount of beer. Probably not ideal ingredients for baking, if he’s real about it.

“You can’t cook,” Natasha reminds him, then gives him a more thoughtful look when he shuts the fridge and turns around to face her. “You’re… happy?”

“Sure,” he agrees. “It’s good news, right? Steve’s gotta be shitting himself with happiness.”

Natasha’s look turns even more scrutinizing. Clint lets her have her staring, more interested in approaching Steve as he comes through the door, still in his leather jacket and civilian clothes. There’s dirt smeared on his cheekbone and Clint’s struck with the urge to wipe it off. He doesn’t, though, because he’s not a housewife from the fifties with a handkerchief to wave. He goes in for a celebratory hug and then he registers the look on Steve’s face and stops.

That’s not a ‘ _My Best Friend Is Back And I’m Delighted’_ face.

Clint’s not sure what it means but it doesn’t look good and he turns the hug into a shoulder-pat instead. “Hey, man, just heard the news. Awesome stuff. Congrats.”

Steve not-so-subtly steps away from his touch. “Yes, I, uh- thank you, Hawkeye.”

_Hawkeye?_ Clint turns to exchange a puzzled look with Natasha. Steve hasn’t called him by his codename outside of the battlefield since- actually, he can’t remember the last time. It’s always _Clint_ , said with a soft kind of exasperation that’s unique to Steve. Natasha’s got one eyebrow arched curiously, but she doesn’t seem to know what’s going on either. When Natasha doesn’t know what’s going on, it’s time to be worried. He turns back to question Steve about the shocking amount of awkwardness and realizes there’s no one there.

Huh.

Maybe Steve’s just nervous about seeing his boyfriend again- that’s fair, considering the last time they’d spoken Bucky had thrown him off of a Helicarrier and then saved his life. Clint can understand why that’d be nerve-wracking. Especially with him being in love with Bucky and all. Clint shrugs to himself and starts ordering an ice-cream cake with JARVIS. Natasha’s still giving him that _look_.

Clint elects to ignore her.

They gather in the main room to congratulate Steve and wait for Bucky and Sam to get back- Clint’s ordered a cake from JARVIS, some ridiculously creamy affair he’s been assured everyone will like. Natasha had watched him the whole time, like she’d been waiting for a bomb to go off. Whatever she’d been waiting for to happen, it doesn’t happen. Clint sits beside her with a beer, cradles it in his fingers and looks outside. There’s no sign of a vehicle yet, but it’ll be on its way.

Clint wonders if that worried look on Steve’s face is really warranted.

He’s tempted to pull Steve aside, pull him into a hug and tell him it’s going to be fine. How wouldn’t it be fine? Anyone with eyes and even people without can see how much he loves Bucky. It’s one of those obvious things, like the sky being blue or water being wet. Steve Rogers loves Bucky Barnes more than life itself. Clint makes his way through the small crowds of people to talk to Steve, maybe give him a pep talk, but the minute Steve meets his gaze he’s excusing himself to the bathroom, leaving the room. Clint’s left listening to Tony blather on, much to his own displeasure.

The next time Steve appears it takes Clint a while to get out of the conversation he’s been dragged into with Wanda, something about a new book she’s read while she’s been out on the town. Clint can’t really follow the plot whatsoever but he nods every few seconds and that seems to please her enough, but she keeps _talking_. Natasha’s grabbed Steve’s wrist, pulling him close to say something that Clint can’t read from this angle. Whatever she says, Steve looks uncomfortable, then pained as he replies.

Wanda keeps talking and Clint wonders if it’s socially acceptable to interrupt. It’s not, and he likes Wanda too much to be an asshole, but the temptation’s there.

Instead, he lets her speak, side-eyes Natasha when she starts frowning at Steve. She doesn’t seem to pick up on Clint’s staring, but Steve does, his gaze skittering up to Clint’s face and then away immediately, like he can’t look directly or something bad will happen. That’s… weird.

He tries again when Wanda finds Vision, approaches quietly and watches Steve jump and then stammer out an excuse before fleeing.

Clint trades a look with Natasha. “What’s wrong?”

“You tell me,” Natasha says. “He’s only avoiding _you_.”

“No he’s not,” Clint argues, even as his heart sinks a little. They’d _talked_ about this. It was just stress relief, nothing more. It shouldn’t be affecting anything except the copious amount of fucking they’d been doing. Steve shouldn’t be slinking away to the other side of the room just because Clint happens to be standing there. He’s about to continue insisting it’s nothing else when Sam comes through the door with a sour look on his face, followed by a figure in a leather jacket and jeans.

The air feels too heavy, all of a sudden, and Bucky Barnes is standing there in fucking _skinny jeans._

He watches the way Steve cradles Barnes’ face in his hands, careful like he’s holding something incredibly precious with absolutely no hesitation and Clint goes, _oh_. That’s that, then. He’d known. He’d known Barnes was Steve’s one-and-only, he’d _known_ , and even then his chest still feels a little hollow when Barnes pulls Steve into a hug and they grasp each other like they’re on the sinking Titanic.

“Alright, target’s on the twelfth floor,” Tony says over comms. “The Widow’s been knocked down, might be concussed, I’ll take her to a medic. Cap, Legolas, are you good to grab him?”

“On my way,” Clint answers, yanking an arrow out of a goon’s shoulder and listening to the groan of pain with more than a little delight.

He pulls a grappling arrow out of his quiver, making split-second calculations for the twenty-story building before he jumps off the side. There’s something to be said for the experience of jumping off a skyscraper. The wind rushes through his ears and he feels the adrenaline spike as he falls, releasing the arrow without looking and feeling it catch on the concrete. He swings in with a crash and the villain they’re chasing runs down the staircase again as Clint rolls to his feet.

The villain- Clint doesn’t know his name and he doesn’t really care- is some sort of Enhanced being, because he’s running way too fast for a normal person. Clint’s realizes there’s no way he’s going to catch up with the guy before he leaves the building, and the staircase doesn’t give him enough room to shoot off an arrow that’ll hit.

“Need some help here,” he grits out. “Cap, how close are you?”

“Yeah, he took Natasha,” Tony says. “Sorry, bud, you got the handsome one instead. What floor?”

“Fifth,” Clint says, and as he hits the bottom of the stairs a beam from the floor-to-wall windows hits the guy he’s chasing in the shoulder and knocks him into the wall. Disoriented, it’s easy to toss his bow like a stick and knock the guy to the ground. He skids to a halt in front of the villain’s limp body, nudges it with a foot to make sure he’s unconscious. It’s less of a nudge than a kick, and from the way Tony takes a step back the expression on his face is scary enough. When Clint looks up Tony’s got his face showing, but there’s a little bit of anxiety in his eyes.

“What happened to Steve?”

“I was going to fly Red to the medics that were waiting a few blocks away, but he stopped me and said he’d take her, and for me to help you,” Tony supplies. “It’s weird- I can _fly,_ it’d be faster my way, but he doesn’t take no for an answer.”

“Right,” Clint says. “Right. Okay.”

There goes his last hope that Steve isn’t avoiding him.

The hollow feeling in his chest gets a little bit deeper. Steve can’t even look him in the eye, can’t even fight a bad guy on the risk that he might be alone with Clint. It doesn’t even feel like an embarrassed ‘so yeah, we had nonstop sex for a while and it’s weird now.’ It’s affecting their _work_ , fucking hell. Steve’s endangering people because he can’t look at Clint. That’s- that’s really bad news, really, because the world _needs_ Captain America. Clint swallows past the lump in his throat and grabs the unconscious thug by the back of his shirt, starts dragging him down the stairs.

The guy’s limp feet thunk rhythmically against each step.

“You sure you don’t want me to fly them down, Barton?”

Clint ignores him.

“It’s not like I didn’t _know_.”

“Of course,” Natasha agrees. Clint’s pretty sure he stinks of cheap tequila and sweat. He hasn’t even changed since the mission, too intent on going to Natasha’s room to steal her alcohol and- well, he’d considered just sobbing on her couch, but that feels a little dramatic. Natasha’s humoring him, and Clint’s not going to think about if that’s because she hit her head this afternoon. He’s going to assume it’s just that she’s a good friend and doesn’t mind having some six-feet-and-three-inches of sad, drunk blond in her lap.

“He was always in love with Barnes, I _knew that_ when we started this,” Clint says. “It wasn’t a problem or anything.”

Natasha gently detaches his numb fingers from the now-empty bottle of Ocho. He lets her, watches her set it down on the coffee table. There’s another bottle hidden around here somewhere but he’s not focused enough to remember where it is. He doesn’t think Natasha would let him have it anyway. He’s allowed to wallow and be generally mopey and sad, but not to give himself alcohol poisoning.

“I mean,” he continues, unhappily aware he’s complaining way too much for losing a simple fuckbuddy, “I get it. I was his piece on the side. He and Barnes have that hundred-year star-crossed lovers across time going on. I’m just a good fuck that he was blowing steam off with. But why’s he avoiding me altogether? It’s not like I’m going to jump him or anything. I’m not that much of an asshole.”

“I know,” Natasha says, strokes her fingers through his hair.

“He could at least stop running away whenever we’re in the same room,” Clint says. That hollow feeling in his chest hasn’t gotten any better in the last six hours, and he has to turn his face and press it against Natasha’s leather-clad thigh. She keeps petting him steadily like she’s got a cat on her legs and not her extremely drunk partner, an oasis of calm in the desert of disaster that is Clint’s life. He doesn’t deserve her, not really. “It’s fucking up the team, he’s going to put someone in danger.”

“I can change the lineup so you’re not sent out together,” Natasha offers.

“What if we need the whole team for something? How’re we going to save the world if we can’t even be within fifty meters of each other?”

He’s right, of course he is. It’s a disaster, and Clint wishes he’d never made that first pass at Steve Rogers, never looked in his stupidly blue eyes and thought there was _something_ there. Never got to know him at all, because then he wouldn’t be lying here thinking about all the things he’d lost. Wishing he didn’t know anything about the little crooked smile Steve would get when Clint passed him the orange juice first thing in the morning, like Clint was something important he was going to hold onto.

Clint feels like _he’s_ the one who’s fucked up, even though Steve’s the one avoiding him. Maybe he was. This was certainly a mistake on his part, because while he doesn’t have any bad feelings about Barnes, he’s worryingly aware he might be a little bit in love with Steve Rogers as well.

Nothing ever goes right for Clint Barton, does it?

“I just want him to look at me again,” he says, and his voice comes out small.

“He’s an idiot,” Natasha tells him, and it isn’t comforting in the slightest.

The next time the call for the Avengers comes, Clint stays in bed and ignores Wanda’s knocking on his bedroom door. He’s hungover and sore and he’s spent the last two hours with his head half-in the toilet, bare knees aching from the cold tile. _They’ll be fine without me,_ he thinks as he curls a little tighter into his Black Widow covers and shuts his eyes.

It only takes a few seconds to get his hearing aids out and tosses them across the room without aiming for anything in particular.

The world fades into blissful silence and Clint pulls the duvet over his head. The darkness is oddly comforting- it’s like making the outside just as empty as how he feels on the inside helps. Hopefully they’ll give up on waiting for him to show up. He takes a breath and tries not to feel too guilty about skipping the fight this time. He’s doing it for the right reasons, after all, even if it’s his job to help people. He’s not that essential to the line-up anyway. Not as important as other people.

Because really, they’re going to need Captain America more than they need him.

Steve avoiding him means that he hasn’t been spending time with the others, and Clint manages to feel guilty about that on top of everything else, which isn’t a surprise. Whatever this is, it’s not fair to make Steve stay away from his friends just by existing, either. The third time Clint shows up for dinner only for Steve to disappear into his room and everyone to turn to look at him questioningly, he has to bite back the urge to tell them all to fuck off.

It’s not their fault. It’s _his_.

“Clint?” Wanda places a careful hand on his elbow. His eyes are burning for some unknown reason. The whole team is still staring at him, and he’s vaguely aware that Bruce is murmuring something about taking him to the lab for a checkup. He feels like one of Tony’s science experiments, being watched and monitored so they can figure out how he ticks. Clint shakes off Wanda’s hand and takes a step back, away from them all, the chaos inside of him threatening to break free.

“We got hot wings,” Sam says, forever the normal one.

Clint escapes back to his own bedroom and rolls himself back into the cocoon of sheets.

Clint ends up limiting himself to his room and the range outside that Tony’s set up for him, knowing that no one else goes out there. His days narrow down into a routine that goes wake up, go outside via window, aim, draw, shoot, aim, draw, shoot, pretend he’s fine if someone comes out to bother him, aim, draw, shoot, retrieve his arrows and repeat. The only person that checks on him is Natasha, though, and he starts to wonder if anyone would actually notice if he slunk back to Bed-Stuy and bunked with Katie again. He should text her.

He feels eyes on the back of his head but doesn’t stop shooting until he has one arrow left. “If you’re just going to stand there you can go get the arrows.”

Clint’s expecting Natasha, so he flinches visibly when Barnes steps into his field of vision. “I’m not going until you get rid of that one. Not a fan of being shot.”

“Understandable,” Clint says, because he’s not sure what to make of this. He releases the last arrow and it thunks into the center with the others. Then he lowers his bow and Barnes walks past him, silently moving to the targets before he begins to methodically pull the arrows out. Clint just watches him, with increasingly high levels of bewilderment. Barnes stacks the arrows and then hands them back to Clint, who takes them without a word. He thinks he might be staring. What is he _doing_ out here?

All of a sudden Clint remembers he was fucking the man’s boyfriend and he thinks, _shit_. He’s started shooting again automatically as his mind races a million miles an hour. Chances are, he’d be caught even before he could attempt to make an escape. If Barnes wants to kill him, this sprawling green field with no cover is a good place to do it.

Nothing happens after a few minutes, though, and he glances over his shoulder to see Barnes just standing there. Watching him shoot, a thoughtful look on his face. Clint releases the arrow he’s got strung without looking, knows that it hits the center the same as all the others. Barnes’ eyebrows raise slightly. Clint’s aware he’s staring but he doesn’t know what’s going on. Barnes is wearing a dark grey hoodie that’s slightly too big for him, one Clint registers was _his_ originally, which was subsequently stolen by Steve and now has been passed on. That’s a mindfuck.

“What,” he says, and it’s too flat to be a question.

Barnes bites his lip, the thoughtful look transforming into something annoyed, and Clint braces himself for it. “I can’t work the Playstation.”

“You- _what?_ ”

Barnes grimaces and Clint registers faintly that the annoyance isn’t actually directed at _him_. He’s not actually going to die today, apparently. From the way Barnes is acting Clint would guess the man doesn’t even _know_ about him and Steve. He just… wants to use the fucking PS4. Clint’s not entirely sure he hasn’t been dropped into an alternate dimension. “I don’t know how to work it and Natalia said you’re the only one that actually uses it.”

“I guess you can’t ask Steve,” Clint says absently. Steve can’t even work an iPod.

“Nope,” Barnes says. “He’s useless. I’ll share my pizza?”

Clint eyes him off for a second longer but Barnes- _Bucky_ just tucks his hands in the pockets of the hoodie that’s cycled through their not-really-love-triangle and waits. He’s not being threatening, he’s not attacking Clint, he’s not even glaring. He looks soft and comfortable, and he wants to share a pizza with Clint.

Hell, maybe it’s poisoned, but Clint will take his chances at this point.

The pizza is definitely not poisoned.

It’s fucking _incredible_.

“They went out,” Bucky explains as he kicks his socked feet up on the coffee table. They’ve got little moustaches doodled on them. The Compound is startlingly empty, apart from Vision, who phases through the walls into Wanda’s room when they start messing with the television. Clint’s hit with a wave of relief- he’d been so caught up in the weirdness of Bucky Barnes asking for his help that he hadn’t even thought about the reason he’d been avoiding the main area to begin with. Bucky presses the button to open the game and operates it with his metal fingers as he eats the slice of pizza one-handed.

“Good riddance, honestly,” Bucky adds after a minute. “They’re kind of obnoxious.”

“They’re not that bad,” Clint says, snags another slice. “Well, they are, but it’s out of affection.”

“Nothing could be worse than being stuck in a car with Wilson for a week,” Bucky replies.

Bucky seems _at home_ here, which is by far not the strangest thing Clint’s ever seen, but it is unexpected. He’d been told about the Winter Soldier through Natasha, late at night when she’d been haunted by her past, and he’d expected something a little less _normal_. He’d heard a lot about Bucky Barnes as well, though, late nights with his cheek pressed against Steve’s chest, and that doesn’t perfectly line up with the man hanging out on the couch next to him either.

There’s still something oddly calming about him, though, something that softens the stress rattling in Clint’s chest as Bucky pokes his tongue out, focusing on the screen.

He pushes his hair away from his face and starts playing with just his left hand, operating it with the kind of deft movements that make even Clint’s eyebrows lift. Who’d have known the former Fist of Hydra was actually _good_ at playing video games? What was he actually _doing_ all that time he’d been evading Steve and Sam? The thought of him coming across a DS and playing Mario Kart by himself while on the run makes Clint snort quietly to himself.

Bucky tosses a second controller into his lap, apparently disinterested in the pizza now. Oh well, more for Clint to eat. He’s been living off of the snack pile in his room and it’s been greatly diminished- he’s hungry, goddamnit. “Join up. I can’t get past this bit.”

“This is the easy part,” Clint says as he looks at the screen.

“No it’s not,” Bucky retorts.

Clint glances over at Bucky, but he’s focused on the game. Not even slightly concerned about Clint’s presence. Not staring at him, or asking him what’s wrong, or running away to the other side of the planet like everyone else is. Bucky’s just _there_ , asking him to play a dumb video game with no obvious ulterior motives and no questions about what’s going on in his life. It’s not like Clint ever had a problem with Bucky himself, really- _it’s Steve you have the problem with,_ the little angry voice in his head butts in- so maybe it’s okay if he spends time with the guy.

Clint picks up the controller.

Clint’s sitting in an unhappy huddle on the couch when Bucky passes by a few days later. It’s probably weird for Bucky to see him in a communal area, Clint muses distantly. It’s not like it’s been happening very often. Bucky’s got a bowl full of something that’s making a lazy trail of steam around his face and he stops right in front of the television so he’s blocking the screen, raises an eyebrow at Clint and then says something. Whatever he says, it may as well be Chinese for all Clint can tell. Between the steam and the messy strands of hair escaping from Bucky’s ponytail, there’s no way he can lipread accurately.

“Can’t hear you,” he says, pulls his thin flannel tighter around him. “My aids are getting fixed.”

They’re only getting fixed because he stepped on them to avoid going out. Basic excuses aren’t working anymore. Bucky’s gaze drifts from Clint’s eyes to his left ear and then back again. Clint’s not sure what that look means- whether Bucky considers him a liability now because he’s disabled. The bowl gets set down on the table and Clint watches him round the table to sit down cross-legged, facing Clint. Bucky waits for him to turn too before he raises his hands, one glinting in the midday sunlight, and looks thoughtful for a minute.

_Did you get the DLC for The Evil Within yet?_ he signs slowly but perfectly.

Clint nearly chokes on his own spit. Bucky continues to look at him expectantly.

“You can sign,” he says after a minute. It’s not a question.

Bucky frowns. _Hydra programmed me with a lot of languages. Silent communication is useful._ Okay, that makes sense. It’s probably handy to have in the field, especially with that mask they’d made Bucky wear during missions. At least he’d gotten some skills that weren’t effectively murdering other people. Clint doesn’t say that out loud, though, and Bucky looks hesitant before he starts signing again. _No one else does this with you?_

“Natasha can. I think most of them forget I’m deaf half the time,” Clint replies with a shrug. It’s not a big deal. He can lipread if it comes to that, or do what he did with Bruce and tap a notepad demandingly until the conversation was written down. Bucky’s frown deepens when he hears that, though. He starts to say something out loud and then visibly stops himself, bites at his lip like he’d been about to tell Clint something he wasn’t supposed to. The former Winter Soldier looks _hesitant_ , nervous, almost.

_I bet I can kick your ass at Mortal Kombat,_ he signs instead.

“Bull _shit_ ,” Clint says, rising to the challenge.

He’d sort of resigned himself to being alone for the rest of his dwindling career in Avenging. Shooting arrows at empty targets, watching the days drift past. Like he’d been left behind to rot in the Compound while everyone else got the job done. Clint knows it’s his own decision to stay behind in the end, but it doesn’t make him feel any better about it. He’s doomed to just haunt his own home, alone, because Kate’s gone to California and rented out the entire apartment building in Bed-Stuy.

Instead, he gets Bucky.

The team’s out on a lot of missions, and apparently the rules of Barnes being allowed legally in the US mean that he can’t go out with them. This results in the two of them being left in the Compound alone _together _,__ which somehow results in Bucky coaxing Clint out of his room whenever he can. It _works_ , which is even more concerning. Clint’s starting to realize why Bucky was a notorious ladies’ man back in the day despite being Steve’s, because despite Clint’s best efforts to stay away he keeps finding himself lured by takeout or a round of darts or just Bucky’s slight smirk as he pokes his head into Clint’s room.

Clint tries to keep him at arm’s length still, but he gets a little lost in Bucky’s easy charm and still ends up perched on a stool in the kitchen, watching as Bucky makes a mess. There’s flour _everywhere_. It smells nice, though, and he yawns and pulls his mug of coffee a little closer.

“It says if you add sour cream it stays moist,” Bucky says, staring at the cake on the counter critically.

“I burn toast,” Clint supplies because he’s really not the person to help with baking, but he takes the slice he’s offered and takes a bite anyway. “Holy __shit__ , Barnes, this is orgasmic. Did Hydra teach you to be a cake god?”

“Not really. They liked the murdering better,” Bucky answers dryly.

He looks pleased, though, a little soft around the edges where Clint expects him to be sharp. There’s still shadows in his eyes, and sometimes he gets this look on his face when he has his back to a large part of the room, but sitting with him here, watching him be domestic, it’s _nice_. Almost like Clint’s life isn’t just a black hole of emptiness. It doesn’t fix anything, and it doesn’t make him miss fighting or _other things_ less, but it makes something new. He’s starting to like it.

“Barton! You’re still alive,” Tony announces as he comes through the door. Clint stiffens visibly and Bucky’s smile twists into a glare that’s directed somewhere over his shoulder, probably at Stark.

“Tony,” Bruce says, but it’s too soft to warn him off.

“So what, you’re spending time with Mister Freeze here instead of us? What, too good for the Avengers now?” Clint whips around before he thinks better of it, but Tony Stark is mostly immune to nasty looks when he’s in this kind of mood and he ignores Clint’s just as well.

The problem is that doing that means looking at the team as they file in, and looking at the team means he accidentally meets Steve’s eyes. They’re as blue as ever and Clint’s heart feels like it’s curling in on itself looking at him, a smear of blood Clint would normally be wiping off on his jaw and suit in all its blue-and-white glory. Steve stares back at him for a long minute and it’s like the world stops for a second, because there’s something painful and complicated in his expression, and for all the spy training in the world Clint’s got no idea what it means.

Bucky shifts in his peripherals and then the moment’s broken, and Steve’s turning around to hightail it out of there.

“Did you piss off Rogers? Don’t tell me all this weird shit is your fault, Katniss.”

“Fuck _off,_ ” Clint snaps. It’d be so very easy to punch Tony in this moment, and satisfying to boot. Tony isn’t wearing the suit, just an obnoxious expression that makes the anger bubble up inside him, he’d be an easy target.

A cold hand lands on his wrist and breaks him out of it. Bucky, checking on him. Like he __cares__. Clint tastes blood and realizes he’s bitten through his own lip. He’s still staring at the space where Steve was. “I- I’m going to go. Sorry,” he mutters at Bucky, because the man deserves at least that before Clint runs off and leaves him to the mercy of Tony Stark And Co.

Bucky lets him go.

Clint wanders across the floor of the gym. He’s half-asleep, just vaguely aware of his surroundings, so he doesn’t register the rhythmic thumping as something to be concerned about. Someone’s got their music too loud, probably. He reaches the long row of lockers and fumbles his way along to the one with the arrow sticking out of it.

Then there’s a startling crack and he turns around to see a figure at the punching bag.

“Huh,” Clint says as he recognizes Bucky. “What’s up, Barnes?”

“They won’t let me leave the Compound,” Bucky says with gritted teeth. Punches the bag again. It creaks alarmingly and Clint realizes he’s going to have to step in before they end up with a spike in property damage again. Not that money is a problem for the Avengers, but Tony likes to complain and Clint doesn’t like _hearing_ him complain. He tried to take his aids out once during a rant and Natasha ratted him out. “Won’t let me leave, won’t let me have my guns back, won’t stop _annoying_ me about fuckin’ Hydra. Like I know shit about what they did, I was just a puppet.”

Clint makes a split-second decision, pulls the hand wraps out of his locker and winds three times around his wrist. “You want to try your luck against something that can actually fight back?”

He turns back to Bucky. Clint can’t talk about feelings, he’s fully aware he’s an emotionally-repressed idiot and it won’t help. That kind of shit is better left to people like… actually, they’re _all_ terrible at dealing with feelings on this team. Nevermind. Either way, Clint’s only ever learned how to deal with things two ways; avoidance and with his fists. Bucky can’t really avoid the way he’s trapped in the building because he’s _trapped in the building,_ so the second option it is.

Bucky looks hesitant but Clint waves him over to the mats.

He’d been planning to just find the stash of Skittles he’d been keeping down here. They get their groceries delivered via JARVIS, but Steve likes to look through and check the prices on things to complain about them. He’s got a real bug up his ass about the way coke tastes nowadays- and how stupid is it, that Clint knows all the little things that make Steve tick? He shouldn’t _know_ this shit. Sure, he lives with the guy, but Clint couldn’t say what Sam or Tony do outside of fights, it should be the same with Steve. It isn’t, though, and Clint’s disgusted at himself for it.

Man, he really wanted those Skittles, but now he wishes he’d gone into the vent in Natasha’s room to get the vodka.

Bucky stops in front of him and frowns. “Are you sure ab-” he starts, and Clint gets his hand on Bucky’s chest and hooks a foot around the back of his ankle, dropping him to the ground with a thump.

He waits for Bucky to get up again. His ponytail’s askew, messy strands stuck to his face, and Clint twists out of the way of his first blow easily, ducks away from the second. The third punch is weak enough that when it comes Clint grabs, twists, and uses the momentum to throw him down again. His breathing’s coming rough in his throat and Bucky just gets up again, looking like the constant drops aren’t even bothering him. It’s not right, though- this is the fucking Winter Soldier, the assassin who apparently trained Natasha part-time. It shouldn’t be this _easy_.

Clint catches another blow with ease and drops him again, this time pinning Bucky down instead of standing to let him get up.

“Stop holding back,” he snarls, shoves Bucky’s shoulders down into the mat when he tries to sit up. Clint’s got all the leverage here, and he’s really __not__ that weak when it comes down to it, so Bucky doesn’t get very far when he pushes up like that. Bucky’s still not fighting back though, and the flash of anger and indignation has Clint smacking Bucky back down into the mats again, harder this time.

“I can take it, fuck _you_ ,” Clint spits.

“I know you can,” Bucky says in that _of course_ tone of voice that Steve uses even though his breath catches when Clint shoves him. “But I’m not- I don’t want to hurt anyone. Not anymore. This isn’t a fight to the death, Barton.”

He sounds far too calm for a person pinned down by six feet and three inches of blond fury. It’s about then that Clint realizes that _he’s_ the frustrated one, not Bucky. What’s he doing, pinning the man down like he’s a threat and not a friend? Bucky’s done nothing but be nice to him and this is what he does in return. He’s out of control. The anger drains out of him instantly and he feels his shoulders slump. He doesn’t have any problems with Bucky, not really- he kind of likes the guy, regrettably, and kicking ass probably doesn’t endear him to Bucky. He makes an effort to release the hard grip on Bucky’s shoulders, sighs and sits back.

“Shit,” he says, voice a little rough. “’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky answers, using a soothing voice like Clint’s a wild animal. Feral. Dangerous. He probably looks that way. “You alright?”

“Sure,” Clint says, even if it’s a blatant lie. He looks down at Bucky’s face, then, dark hair fanned out across the mats like a halo and concerned blue eyes so bright they could be silver. Faintly, he’s aware that Bucky’s _pretty,_ in a way that’s softer than Steve but no less powerful. It occurs to him after that thought that they’re in an _extremely_ compromising position, him pinning Bucky down with his ass planted on Bucky’s thighs, leaning over Bucky’s face with fingers digging into the bare skin and cold steel of his shoulders.

Bucky must come to the same thought he does a few seconds later because Clint’s close enough to notice the way his breathing goes off and his pupils dilate.

“Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS says. “Captain Rogers is looking for you.”

Captain Rogers. _Fuck_. Clint moves away with an exceptional amount of speed, vaguely aware he’s wrapping his arms around himself protectively. He starts heading towards the door, hoping like hell he can get to his room before Steve gets anywhere near the gym. He definitely doesn’t look back at Bucky still spread out on the mats.

He manages a full day of avoidance before Bucky appears in his room. By then, Clint’s already lifted the vodka from Natasha’s room, but he’s only managed to have a mouthful. He’d heard Bruce and Wanda talking about him as he’d walked down the hall, worried hushed voices talking about friction in the team and forcing Clint out there. They’re not going to let him miss out on another mission, and even Natasha’s started to look a little pained when Clint comes up with a new excuse. He’s curled up on his bed thinking about the last time he was here with Steve.

He’d been on his knees, that night, leaning into Steve’s firm fingers in his hair and relishing the noises Steve had made. It had been a lot softer than usual, and Steve hadn’t yanked on Clint’s hair the way he’d normally do it. Clint had looked up and the look on Steve’s face had been oddly reverent, like he’d discovered the secrets to the universe with Clint’s mouth on his dick.

God, yeah, he needs a switch to turn his feelings off.

“I have chips,” Bucky says as he sets them down on Clint’s dresser. Clint’s about ninety percent sure he’d locked the door, which means Bucky’s picked the lock but he can’t find it in him to care. He shifts over when Bucky sits on the bed next to him, tries not to look too despondent and heartbroken. It doesn’t seem to work, because a metal shoulder nudges his own softly. “C’mon, you’re the least annoying person in this place. When you’re not running away.”

“Sorry,” Clint answers, looks down at the scars on his knuckles. “’s not you.”

“I know,” Bucky agrees. Like it’s obvious. They sit in silence for a minute and it leaves Clint wondering what Bucky’s doing here. Clint’s a disaster, and he’s in love with Bucky’s boyfriend, who can’t even look at him. And Bucky’s just _here,_ radiating calm and a little amusement, keeping Clint company while he’s sad. He looks sideways and Bucky’s just watching him with a little curl of his lips that looks fond, for some reason.

“How do I stop doing the emotions thing?”

“What?” Bucky asks. “Like, havin’ ‘em? Kind of inevitable, sorry.”

“I don’t like it,” Clint grumbles.

“Steve?” Clint feels all the blood drain out of his face, the dread rising up to take its place. Instead of kicking his ass or yelling at him, though, Bucky just lays a hand on his denim-covered thigh and pats. Like he’s trying to be comforting. Clint chances a look at his face and Bucky looks more like he’s __sympathetic__ rather than being angry. “He’s kind of dumb.”

“He’s not _dumb,_ ” Clint says reflexively. “Just an arrogant son of a bitch. Anyway, this is- it’s my fault.”

Bucky’s eyes are very blue, even if they’re a completely different shade to Steve’s. “Why would it be your fault?”

“I’m kind of a prick,” Clint admits, tipping his head up to look at the ceiling.

There’s a coffee stain smeared up there. He’s not sure when he did that. Bucky snorts, settles in a little more comfortably with his cheek pressed up against Clint’s shoulder. He’s surprisingly warm for a guy who’s been frozen off and on for the last seventy years. Clint’s aware that he should be pushing away right about now, slinking off so Steve can have Bucky back without worrying about his presence. Shouldn’t be talking about Steve to Bucky anyway. Shouldn’t be talking to Bucky at all.

But he’s been trying so _hard_ to be a good person about all of this and he’s sore and tired, and his chest aches like hell, so he just turns and presses his nose against the softness of Bucky’s hair, closes his eyes.

“I don’t think you’re as bad as you think you are,” Bucky murmurs.

“You’re right. I’m worse,” he says tiredly, because he’s accepting comfort from the one person Steve probably wants him to stay away from. Then again, if Steve wants Clint to avoid his real boyfriend he’d have to _talk_ to Clint, which isn’t happening. Bucky’s hand splays against his chest, as if to keep him there.

Clint didn’t have any interest in going anywhere, but he welcomes the touch anyway. It’s like Bucky’s trying to _comfort_ him, which is hilarious in a heartbreaking sort of way. Bucky’s other hand reaches over to take the bottle of vodka from him and put it on the floor, settles in against Clint a little more. If Clint didn’t know better he’d say Bucky was trying to comfort him, which is stupid. Bucky has no reason to comfort him, they don’t owe each other. If anything he expects Bucky to tell him to fuck off back to his shitty apartment in Bed-Stuy. 

Instead he gets Bucky hooking a leg over his thighs, a warm line of pressure along his body, and metal fingers stroking down his chest. He doesn’t know what to make of this at all.

Bucky sighs against his collarbone. “’m not gonna make you talk about it,” he says. “Just stay, for once. It helps.”

Clint feels his heart do something _funny_ at that, and he thinks _oh, fuck._

Realizing he’s got a crush on Bucky as well is both easier and impossibly harder than being in love with Steve. He hadn’t realized, with Steve, what was going on until it was too late and he couldn’t do anything. He can’t technically _do_ anything with Bucky either, and he hates himself every time Bucky smirks and it makes Clint feel warm again, but Bucky’s _there_ for it, whether he knows or not. It’s impossible to try to avoid Bucky because he doesn’t _want_ to avoid Bucky. He’s weak.

He has dreams about metal fingers tangling in his hair, soft smirks framed by dark hair and cigarette smoke, the little moaning noise Steve would make when it was too much. Clint wakes up overheated and sweaty, hard in his boxers and despising the short amount of time it takes him to get off still imagining Steve and Bucky fucking him.

Together.

“I’m a fucking disaster,” he tells Natasha when she pulls him out to a cafe and shoves a latte towards him.

“I’m aware,” Natasha says dryly.

“No, I’ve really fucked up this time,” Clint confesses and lets his forehead fall down onto the sticky table with a thump. It’s gross. He deserves it. “Can you teach me to be aro? Is that a thing I can do? Aromantics 101?”

“No,” Natasha answers, her fingernails scritching across his scalp softly. “You know it doesn’t work like that. And I wouldn’t teach you even if I could. You’re supposed to love people, that’s who you are.”

Clint tips his head sideways to he can eye her while still pressed against the table. The cold plastic is nice, even if he’s probably contracted a bunch of diseases by rubbing his face on it. She’s giving him a barely-there smile, that thing she does where her lips don’t move but her eyes have fond amusement in them. It’s welcoming enough that Clint feels like maybe he can talk about this honestly after all. If anyone’s not going to judge him, it’ll be Natasha- not because she’s nice like that, but because she’s used to the chaos that surrounds his life.

“I’m in love with Steve,” he says, and it’s a relief to say it out loud and horrible.

“I know,” Natasha replies, unfazed.

Her lack of reaction sparks something in him and he sits up, looks her right in the eye. “I might be falling for Bucky too.”

“You have taste,” Natasha says with a nod. She’s acting like it’s not even a big deal, having feelings for a guy and his boyfriend when they’ve been together since childhood and you’re just the guy who fucked one of them for a while. God, knowing Bucky makes it even worse because he _knows_ he’s nothing like the former Winter Soldier, couldn’t ever measure up to that even if he spent a century trying. Bucky’s charming and sly and helplessly attractive, and even if Clint didn’t _like_ him so much he knows he’s none of that.

“This is _bad,_ ” he says.

“I have faith it’ll work out,” Natasha comments, and _why_ does she have such a thing for petting him?

“Faith in me? Fucking hell, Tasha, that’s a dumb idea.”

“I never said it was faith in you specifically,” she reminds him. “Just faith.”

“Where’s Falcon?”

“Down,” Natasha answers through gritted teeth. There’s a grunt of pain and a bang that reverberates through the comms, and then a crackle before she speaks again. Her voice is strained and there’s a large flash of red from a few blocks away. “Falcon’s down, Iron Man is down, Scarlet Witch is trapped here with me and I can’t find Bruce.”

“I’ve got a lot of them here,” Steve says.

“Hawkeye, position,” Natasha orders. “Can you make it to the Northwest Sector?”

Clint hears Steve’s faint _what_ but ignores it, too busy breaking into a run as he fires off an explosive arrow at the creatures that had been chasing him around the buildings. He’d agreed to her plan to just suit up and stay nearby so Steve wouldn’t run off from an _alien invasion,_ but fucking hell, he hadn’t expected it to get out of control so fast. One of the aliens scream at him and he cringes, gets one hand free to turn down the volume on his hearing aids.

The sounds of the battles nearby fade down into a murmur and he checks the direction he’s heading in, sees an alien fly from there like it’s been thrown. That’d be it, then. It takes a second to tuck his bow away so he has his hands free, hopes like hell he isn’t too late. He takes a running jump and gets on the edge of a dumpster, uses the momentum to jump up the side of a balcony and drag himself up. From there it’s easy to get to the roof and spot Steve on the ground, swinging at the cluster of aliens in front of him.

Steve in motion is breathtaking, and Clint hasn’t seen it for so long he gets a little caught up looking. Then he sees one of the aliens jerk back without being touched, fall to the ground with a bullethole in its head. Clint looks up and sees the dark shape on the rooftop opposite. He can’t hear the shots properly, but he can see the black leather and the gleam of silver on the figure’s left side.

What the hell happened to _I’m not legally allowed to leave the Compound?_

Clint looks down and sees Steve picking off the aliens in the carpark, shoving one against a wall with the shield so he can slice through its weak abdomen. He’s tearing through them at a steady pace, working his way into an area that’s sectioned off by a steel fence that’s rattling ominously. Bucky can’t see it from his angle, but Clint can and that’s- that’s a _lot_ of aliens, even for Steve. The fence is already swaying and Clint’s suddenly aware that he’s the only one who has the means to clear them out quickly enough.

He pulls out an explosive arrow. “Steve, I need you to move towards the east.”

“What’re you-” God, Steve’s voice is a relief, but Clint doesn’t have _time_ for it.

“Get the fuck to the east, Steve,” he snaps, and something in his voice makes Steve start moving, taking an alien with him as he starts running in the direction Clint’s told him to move. The fence falls, then, the surge of aliens in black swarming like ants towards Steve’s solitary blue. They’re faster than Clint had expected as he adjusts his stance, steps into a better position to fire it.

Steve looks up at him then, something small and awed in his face as he watches Clint draw the arrow. Then, “ _Clint,_ behind you!”

Clint refocuses his attention and hears heavy breathing, makes a split-second decision. He can’t let Steve die here. He draws the arrow and fires as he tries to twist out of the way, but it’s too late and he lets out a hiss as sharp claws pierce into his side. He’s aware faintly that if Steve hadn’t called out they would’ve impaled him, as the street below erupts with a boom and he’s thrown backwards. He hits the concrete hard, wheezes as the alien crouches over him and lets its long tongue roll out to touch his scraped cheek.

The gunshot rings out loud in his busted ears and then the alien’s falling over and there’s a dark shadow on his face, an even darker look on Bucky’s face when he rips off the mask.

“ _Clint,_ ” Steve’s shouting, and his voice cracks on the name.

“’m alive,” he gets out.

“That was the most fucking stupid thing I’ve ever seen,” Steve yells, and Clint’s grimace isn’t because Bucky’s tearing off his shirt to get at the wound soaking it with blood. He’d forgotten Steve was a hypocrite when it came to self-sacrifice.

“Goddamnit, Clint,” Steve curses.

“Language,” Clint says vaguely, watches Bucky tear open a sachet of nanites with his teeth. Tony makes them carry the packets as a ‘just in case’ for the kind of wounds that need immediate attention, but Clint’s always made do with superglue and copious amounts of alcohol. It’s going to be a while before anyone with medical experience can get to them, though, and Clint doesn’t have any whiskey on-hand so he slumps back against the wall he’s propped against and lets Bucky do what he’s doing. Distantly, he realizes this is the first time Steve’s used his name since Bucky arrived. “Was helping, you arrogant fuck. We’re a team, remember?”

“I would’ve _healed! _”__ Clint’s aware Steve’s yelling at him in a distant sort of way. “You’re just human. You could’ve _died_. Why do you have to be so fucking reckless?”

“Oh, that’s fucking _gold_ from a man who regularly jumps out of planes without a parachute,” Clint spits, starts rising up to glare at Steve properly until metal fingers press into his sternum and push him back gently. He subsides, not because he’s unable to fight Steve- he can and will- but because Bucky is doing his best here and Clint’s not that much of an asshole.

There’s been no hand over his mouth, though, and he can feel all the hurt and anger from all the time Steve’s spent avoiding him bubbling up. For a minute he thinks his stupid mouth is just going to tell Steve to _fuck off,_ which is an acceptable way to react.

Instead, his voice sounds small and bitter as he says, “’s not like you give a shit anyway.”

It’s so _pathetic_ he curls in on himself reflexively, forgetting the wound until the shock of pain makes him hiss. Bucky pushes him back down again and then wraps his jacket around Clint’s shoulders. It’s warm and it smells like Bucky and the citrus shampoo he uses, and he pulls it a little closer around him as he looks down at Stark’s nanites doing their job of patching him up. It itches. God, he’d pay a million dollars to just sink into the ground right now and never come up again. He’s pissed off at Steve, for sure, but he didn’t mean for it to sound so fucking _childish._

“Clint, I’m not,” and Steve’s voice sounds raw. “I can’t.”

“Whatever you say, Cap,” Clint mutters, because he feels lightheaded, probably from blood loss, and it’s getting hard to focus on conversation.

“You’re both idiots,” he hears Bucky say before everything goes sideways and he has to close his eyes against the glare of the midday sun. He’s still got his aids on, turned back up to normal volume, and as he starts feeling numb he hears Bucky and Steve arguing in rising voices.

“Bucky,” Steve says. “Bucky, I _can’t,_ I won’t do that t-”

“You’re so determined to be a fuckin’ martyr you can’t see what’s right in front of you,” Bucky snaps back, and he sounds angry in a way Clint’s never heard him sound before. A warm hand touches his jaw briefly, slides up his cheek to cup it gently. “Clint, hey, sweetheart. Come here for a sec?”

Clint lets his eyes flicker open and vaguely registers that it’s Bucky touching his face. It’s pleasant enough, but then he sees the dark blue silhouette of Steve standing a few meters away. Oh no. He can’t quite remember why that’s bad, and then he’s distracted by the flecks of blood on Bucky’s eyebrows. He’s getting very close for some reason, and then his lips are against Clint’s, soft and a little searching and Clint just _melts_ into it. He's not exactly sure why he's hallucinating this in particular, but it's pleasant.

“I think I’m gonna pass out,” Clint informs Bucky when he withdraws.

“That’s okay,” Bucky says softly, and everything goes black.

He wakes up in the medical bay in the Compound, dizzy and a little disoriented. Bruce is there, looking unharmed and a little concerned as he checks Clint’s blood pressure and then disconnects the IV line. The nanites have been carefully covered with a clean bandage wrapped around Clint’s midsection, and he sighs with relief when he’s told there aren’t any vital organs hit and that it’ll be repaired soon enough. Apparently the nanites just dissolve when they're done, which is a novelty. Bruce smiles at him, a little awkward but seemingly happy to see him, and then leaves him to rest.

Clint opens his eyes again to Bucky sitting on the side of his bed, combat suit switched out for a purple sweater he _knows_ belongs to him.

He’s starting to suspect that Bucky Barnes might be a wardrobe thief.

“You’re too headstrong for your own good,” Bucky says. “I can’t believe there’s fuckin’ two of you now. God must have some kind of a serious problem with me, and it can’t just be the gay thing.”

“Two of me? I thought I was the one who hit my head on the way down, not you. Did someone else get stabbed?” He suddenly remembers _how_ he got stabbed, struggles his way into a sitting position. Bucky steadies him with one hand as he lists to the side alarmingly. “Steve, shit, I- is Steve okay? I thought I heard him but-”

“Steve’s fine,” Bucky answers. “You thinned out the aliens enough for him to get rid of them all. Barely a scratch on him. You- I don’t like that you put yourself in danger, but he’s okay because of you.”

“Oh,” Clint says, sinking back into the pillows. “Good.”

“He’s going to be ranting about it for weeks. I’m never going to hear the end of this, you know, it’s going to be the topic of conversation for a long time,” Bucky says with amusement dripping off his words. “Don’t you know? Self-sacrifice is only okay if you’re Captain America.”

“Shouldn’t you be with him, then?” It’s a little bitter, and he’s sure Bucky picks up on it. “Why’re you hanging out with me instead? Shouldn’t you two be catching up on the last seventy years, going to a jazz club or whatever the hell people did back then for dates?”

“No,” Bucky says. “You’re hurt and I care about you. Anyway, Steve doesn’t- we’re not doing that right now.”

“Not… dating? He loves you.”

Bucky gives him a look that says he’s _trying very hard_ to be patient but Clint’s stupidity is testing him. “Every time we spend time together he starts apologizing about being in love with _you_.”

“Oh. Fuck,” Clint says, lacking filter- he still has no idea where this is leading. “’s that why you kissed me? To get back at him?”

Bucky lets out an aggravated sigh and drops his head into the rumpled white sheets. Clint’s faintly concerned he’s going to suffocate himself with the intensity of his frustration, but he’s also too tired and confused to do more than stare down at the way Bucky’s hair curls at the back of his neck. It’s cute. Soft. He kind of wants to touch it, but he gets the feeling Bucky’s mad at him right now. Also, he’s really got to stop touching Bucky anyway. Bad Clint. Bad.

“You’re not _bad_ ,” Bucky says, muffled by the sheets. Oh, shit. He’d said that out loud. “Just a grade-a dumbass. But you’re more likely to actually listen to me when I talk.”

There’s a deaf joke there somewhere, but Clint’s having trouble getting ahold of it. Instead he blinks blearily as Bucky twists around so he can face Clint properly, lean in closer. His eyes are fascinating up-close. “I didn’t kiss you to get back at Steve,” he says. “I kissed you because I wanted to.”

“Right,” Clint replies. It’s not like he hadn’t wanted it __too__ , but. “Well, that creates a whole new set of problems, Bucko.”

“Do the math, Barton,” Bucky says. “Steve’s in love with me. Steve’s also in love with you. I love Steve. Steve’s stupidity broke your heart, which means you’re probably in love with him too. I kissed you. You _liked_ it. You’re the one who didn’t grow up in the twenties, why does a hundred-year old man know more about polyamory than you?”

“I,” Clint starts. Stops. “ _What?"_

Clint asks for some help to get back to his own room, which results in Bucky scooping him up to carry him. He starts to protest but it jostles the still-aching wound in his side. There’s an option somewhere to just complain the whole trip down the Compound’s corridors, but instead he rests his cheek against the soft wool of Bucky’s- _his_ \- sweater. Steve had picked him up for sex sometimes, but never like this. It’s new. Different. Clint has too much time to think about him and Steve and Bucky.

Bucky lets him fall onto the unmade bed and hands him a new shirt, one of Clint’s favourites. Helps him slide on the black cotton and sits back once he’s done, carefully edging out of Clint’s space again. Really, Clint should’ve picked up on this a lot earlier, because he’s starting to connect a lot of dots that shouldn’t have needed connecting and he feels like maybe this had been Bucky’s intention from the start.

“You knew how to use the Playstation all along,” Clint says, a little accusatory.

“ _Duh,_ ” Bucky answers. “You ever seen someone who can’t use technology cream you at Mortal Kombat before? It takes practice.”

“The pizza?”

“Natalia was happy to supply me with the information I wanted,” Bucky says with a shrug. Suddenly Clint starts to understand what Natasha had meant about having faith, but not in him. Seems like Bucky had been setting things up long before he’d caught feelings.

“You wanted this all along,” Clint says, the realization hitting him. “You planned it.”

Bucky suddenly looks unsure, bites his lip in that way Clint’s started to recognize as nerves. “I mean, Steve told me he was in love with you on the second day. Told me it was over, though, and that I had nothin’ to worry about. Then he just… he’s really in love with you. The kind of shit that you don’t just get over.” Bucky gives him a little sideways smile at that and Clint’s heart twists painfully in his chest. “Figured I’d make friends, find some way we could share. Make him happy.”

“And?”

“Didn’t expect to like you this much,” Bucky admits. “You’re something else, Barton, even if you blame yourself for everything that goes wrong.”

“Right,” Clint says. He thinks he might be going into cardiac arrest. “And that means…?”

“Means I don’t just want Steve now,” Bucky says quietly and looks down at his hands.

“Huh,” Clint says. Bucky’s looking uncharacteristically nervous now, in a way he hadn’t been when he’d talked about Steve’s or Clint’s feelings. It hits Clint, then. He’d been willing, after seventy years of pain and trauma, to casually befriend his boyfriend’s fuckbuddy just so Steve would be happy again. The attraction between them was _unexpected_ \- Bucky had been intending to just get Clint back with Steve, no bonus on his part, no ulterior motives, just trying to make the guy he loves smile. Christ, that’s a lot.

The lump in Clint’s chest gets unbearable and he has to grab Bucky, get a handful of his stupidly artsy hipster bun and yank him down against Clint. It’s a bad idea, really, because he’s still injured, but Bucky sinks down against him careful and pliant and lets Clint kiss him anyway. Metal fingers curl against his stomach where the shirt’s ridden up, cool steel and completely at odds with how hot Bucky’s mouth feels.

“Alright,” he says when he’s a little breathless, taking in the dazed look in Bucky’s eyes. “What’s the plan to get Steve onboard, then?”

Bucky’s plot to get Steve to engage in a poly relationship is not as well thought-out and subtle as his attempt to establish contact with Clint is. He’d been an evil mastermind then, and it’s like he’s now downgraded into being Victor Von Doom. Clint tells him this and he snorts, tells Clint to shut up and steals another hoodie, this time emblazoned with the Hawkeye symbol.

Clint’s fairly sure he’s not going to have any clothes left by the end of this, and decides that when that day comes he’ll embrace being a nudist. He’s not quite brave enough to steal his clothes back from Bucky. Bucky sits by his side while he’s on bedrest, tells him stories about the stupid shit Steve had gotten up to when they’d been kids. It’s funny, hearing it from the other side, and Clint’s starting to think Steve doesn’t have an ounce of self-preservation in him. The distant look on Bucky’s face when he tells the stories, the fierce love in his expression further cements what a big deal it is that Clint’s managed to somehow worm his way in there.

Neither of them see Steve during the bedrest period, but after a few days Clint’s allowed to escape and then Bucky’s dragging him off to enact part two of the plan.

They’re a team now, apparently.

“Come _on,_ ” Bucky says, impatient.

“I feel like this is a bad idea, Buckaroo,” Clint answers as he takes another bite of his sandwich, leans up against the opposite wall. Watching Bucky try to pick Tony’s fancy locking system is borderline hilarious. He’s not getting anywhere with trying to break into Steve’s room and Clint can’t help snickering at him.

Bucky fixes him with a glare. “You want to chase him around the place in the hopes he’ll stop running instead? He can outrun you within seconds.”

“Point taken,” he agrees reluctantly. It’s kind of hard to propose a relationship to a guy who won’t stay in his presence long enough to say hello. He’s getting too old for that kind of shit so soon after getting stabbed. Clint’s still kind of dubious about Steve wanting this- wanting _him_ \- but he’s willing to try. You miss every shot you don’t take, after all. And the idea of getting what _he_ wants, while terrifying, is worth a try. “Hey, JARVIS, can you open Steve’s room for us?”

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS replies.

The door slides open easily and Bucky throws his lockpick at Clint’s head. It gets stuck in his hair. Clint removes it and then tosses it back, snorting when it bounces off of Bucky’s forehead.

“Captain Rogers will return shortly. He has been sent with Miss Romanoff to report on the latest mission to former Director Fury,” JARVIS adds. “Shall I inform him that you are waiting for his presence in his quarters?”

“No, J, it’s okay. He’s got eyes,” Clint says, and Bucky gives him a tight nod and walks into the room. Clint follows and the door slides shut behind him so he can lean up against the cold steel. The room hasn’t changed much since the last time he’d been here- he quietly catalogues the Captain America ashtray, the neatly folded sweater on the bed, Bucky messing around with the bookshelf like he belongs there. He’s missed being here, but here to ambush Steve? It’s kind of iffy.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” Clint says suddenly, the lump in his throat tasting a lot like fear. “What if you- what if _you_ just tried talking to him again?”

“I tried that,” Bucky answers, looking annoyed. “Multiple times.”

“How do you know he isn’t just embarrassed? That he doesn’t just _regret_ what he did with me and that’s why he’s acting like this?”

“You’re almost as dumb as he is,” Bucky says, but there’s no venom in his voice. Instead he steps away from the bookshelf with a green hardcover. He tosses it in Clint’s direction and Clint catches it reflexively, noting the little neon tabs bookmarking it. It’s well-worn, definitely used in the way he’s only seen Steve do with one other book- and _that_ one was his journal of things in the future he’d needed to catch up on. The dirty stuff had been marked with a neon purple tab. He turns the book over.

_Intermediate ASL Lessons Volume 4_ stares back at him in solid gold letters, and Clint blinks. The words don’t change. Clint looks back up at Bucky, who’s sat himself down on the familiar slate-grey sheets, looking suitably smug. Then he looks back down at the book. Doing the beginner’s versions might’ve suggested politeness or friendship, accommodating for Clint’s botched hearing, but intermediate? And he’s up to volume _four?_ That’s a very large amount of dedication for the subject. Clint looks back up at Bucky.

“Maybe he just likes learning,” Clint says weakly, but he’s aware of the incredulous smile edging onto his face.

“Buck, I’m- oh.”

“Well, he’s not running yet,” Clint acknowledges, looking at Steve over Bucky’s shoulder. In his peripherals, Bucky’s looking tired as he twists around to see Steve as well. They’re just sitting on the bed, nothing as scandalous as you’d expect from the expression on Steve’s face. He’s in his normal road gear, leather jacket and stupidly tight white shirt, but his eyes are wide and round as he takes in the two of them sitting there. “Hi, Steve.”

“Clint,” Steve greets, apparently too surprised by their ambush to be rude. “I- you’re okay?”

“All fixed,” he agrees. “Like it never happened. Unlike you and me.”

It’s a little too sharp to be just an observation, but Steve just looks down at his feet like he’s accepting the chastising instead of running from it. Bucky’s not saying anything, just shifts to the side so his shoulder is brushing Clint’s but watching Steve. Clint wonders if maybe Steve’s tired of this running and hiding too, if he’s just as hurt and lonely as he is. If he’s missed Clint as much as Clint’s missed him.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says when they all lapse into silence. “You’re both- you don’t deserve this.”

Clint and Bucky exchange an unimpressed look. “This is why I can’t get anything done,” Bucky says. “He just ends up having a conversation with himself and I’m not invited.”

Steve’s still muttering about this being unfair on them and how he’s a terrible person, some other things that he chooses to tune out because it’s all bullshit. Clint has to reluctantly accept that while he’s supposed to be one of the figureheads of the Avengers, and he’s a damn good fighter, Steve Rogers is a little bit of an idiot. And what does that say about Clint? What does that say about _Bucky,_ who likes them both?

“Steve. Shut the fuck up,” he says.

Steve shuts up. Blinks at him. Huh. Normally when Clint said that he’d get some iteration of _that’s not very polite, I think you should show a little more respect_ in a low, teasing voice. Maybe there was a little more authority in his tone this time, because if this is real, if it can happen without a monumental fuck-up, Clint’s going for it. He’s not going to let Steve go without getting some honest answers out of him. Bucky raises one hand then, gestures Steve to come a little closer. It’s like the two of them sitting here is some sort of irresistible sight to Steve, because he follows that direction too, approaches the bed and then stands there with a complicated expression on his face.

“Do you-” Clint starts. Stops. “I’m. Bucky said you had- feelings. Do you have feelings?” Steve stares at him. “Not feelings in general, I know you have those, I mean- feelings about me. Those. Yes.”

It’s so painfully awkward even Clint’s cringing. Steve’s still looking at him with an increasingly large frown on his face. “Clint, it’s…”

Next to him, Bucky sighs like they’ve personally slighted him. “Steve, just tell him what you told me.”

Steve looks uncertain as he glances between Clint and Bucky, but Bucky’s just pressing a warm line against Clint’s side, careful and comforting. He stays where he is, despite the clear aura radiating that he thinks they’re both idiots. Clint looks up and Steve’s got fear in his eyes, violent like a deer in the headlights of a car.

“I didn’t mean to,” Steve says, suddenly vehement. “It was supposed to be just _sex_. It was fun- you were fun, Clint. More than I expected. But that’s just it, you were so much _more_ than fun and I knew when you gave me the goddamn cigarette that it wasn’t just simple attraction.”

“Oh,” Clint says, and his voice sounds small.

“I don’t expect you to do anything about it,” Steve continues hurriedly. “I’m still in love with Bucky too, and that’s not fair to either of-”

He doesn’t get to finish his tirade of self-deprecation though because Clint’s fisting a hand in his jacket and yanking him down to fit their mouths together. It’s off-center and a little awkward, Steve’s teeth grazing his lip as his hand lands on Clint’s shoulder to balance himself. It should be terrible, really, and it is terrible in a way, but it’s also brilliant because Steve has _feelings_ for him. Steve has feelings for him and Bucky has feelings for him and Clint’s chest feels all cracked open and aching in the good way.

“I missed you,” Steve whispers in the space between their lips.

“I’m not crying,” he warns as Steve pulls back a few inches and gives him a faintly worried look. Clint takes a breath to fortify himself and closes his eyes against the hot sting. He’s not sure he really believed it until now, just humouring Bucky for all the effort he’d put in, but. But now he’s sure.

“Christ, Barton,” Bucky mutters. Clint feels calloused fingers wipe at his face, gently thumbing away the wetness he can feel. It’s Bucky, not Steve, and it’s gentle enough that he chokes out a wet-sounding laugh. God, why does he always end up crying when it comes to Steve? He opens his eyes to see a faintly blurry but pained expression making its way back over Steve’s face.

“Bucky, I’m sorry,” Steve says in a rush. “I know you talked about that three-person relationship thing but I was scared, and I don’t want you or Clint to feel like you’re left out or on the outside.”

“Oh, I’m not being _left out,_ pal,” Bucky answers. The hand on Clint’s jaw guide him to look sideways, where he gets to taste the indulgent little smirk curling Bucky’s bitten-red lips. It’s less desperate and rough than kissing Steve, more of a _hi, hello_ than a _god I’ve missed you_. Clint makes a noise into the kiss without meaning to, just reacting to having them both so close, and Bucky nips at his lip. He has to pull back to catch his breath, then, because Bucky kisses like he’s laying claim and Clint’s frazzled brain can only take so much.

“Okay, Steve?”

Clint glances back at Steve, then.

He’s expecting a lot of things, but he definitely isn’t expecting the raw _want_ on Steve’s face, like seeing them together is everything he’s ever wanted wrapped up and deposited in his lap. It’s so shockingly _intense_ that Clint shivers under Bucky’s fingers. He watches as Bucky grins at him, sharp and delighted, and then reaches up to kiss Steve as well.

“So,” Bucky says. “Good?”

“Good,” Clint agrees, voice a little wobbly.

“Good,” Steve repeats, reverent.

“Good,” Bucky says again. “Because I haven’t had sex in seventy years and I’m real tired of this moping bullshit.”

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky breathes. “How did you manage to _stop,_ Steve, what kind of an idiot are you?”

Steve’s answering laugh is quiet, a low thing that vibrates through Clint’s body where Steve’s chest is pressed against his back. The carpet’s scratching against the skin of his knees and he’s got Bucky’s fingers in his hair, not tugging or being rough but just _feeling_. It’s surprisingly gentle for a guy who sounds like he’s losing his mind, and Clint’s almost upset that he can’t smirk with Bucky’s cock in his mouth. He shifts and feels Steve’s erection against his ass, moves against it with a little more purpose as he pulls back and drags his tongue along the tip. Bucky shifts on the edge of the bed, thighs tensing as Clint teases him.

“Should hear him when he’s getting fucked,” Steve says conversationally and Clint twitches. “He gets loud.”

“Fuck you,” Clint says as he pulls away, unable to stop himself rising to the bait even as heat floods him.

“Really,” Steve replies mildly, pushing harder against Clint’s ass. _God,_ why is he still wearing pants? No one else is wearing them. Clint had forgotten about the amount of teasing that he brings to the table, can’t decide if he loves or hates Steve for it. “Fuck _me?_ ”

“How about fuck _me_ instead, sweetheart,” Bucky says, and then he _does_ pull on Clint’s hair and it’s so good. It’s enough to convince Clint to get his lips back around Bucky’s dick, start sucking again as Steve’s fingers dig into his bare hips. There’s something inherently pleasant about blowing someone, the steady ache in his jaw and the weight of it on his tongue but it’s even better hearing Bucky moaning above him. Bucky’s demanding, but he’s not the kind of dominant that Steve is and Clint can get away with teasing him a little.

Clint gets a hand up Bucky’s knee, slides it up to his thigh and pushes it out a little. Bucky’s thighs are the stuff of wet dreams, thick and muscled and so goddamn glorious Clint’s got to get his other hand up there too. Steve’s hands slide up his chest as he bobs his head, and he feels plastic press against his chest. He’s five seconds away from telling Steve to get lost when he realizes he’s being given the lube, and that makes him perk up.

Bucky may have enjoyed Clint’s blowjob skills but he gets even _more_ undone when Clint gets his fingers in him, moving in counterpoint with Clint’s mouth.

Steve’s still watching them quietly and if Clint didn’t know he liked being a voyeur he’d be worried. As it is, he just pushes back against Steve’s clothed dick again, slow and teasing.

“ _Please,_ ” Bucky says, breathless, pulls on Clint’s hair again.

“Clint,” Steve orders, and Clint pulls off reluctantly, scowls over his shoulder. Killjoy. He can’t quite make eye contact with Steve at this angle but his point comes across anyway, judging by the amused snort he gets. Bucky whines and nudges his side with one foot. It’s not hard enough to be anything but endearing and Clint catches his ankle, presses a soft kiss to his knee. Steve’s breath is hot on Clint’s ear as he leans in, says in a low voice, “Do you want to fuck him or should I?”

“You do it,” he replies immediately, wonders if he says it too quickly past the heat flickering up his spine. So he wants to watch supersoldier sex in HD, who the hell would _blame_ him? He’d watch them play Scrabble and be happy.

Instead of that he gets to roll on the bed next to Bucky, help him sprawl out on the pillows and hear Steve’s punched-out grunt as he lines up and pushes in. Bucky’s right hand scrabbles on the sheets frantically, finds Clint’s arm and grabs on. God, they’re gorgeous. Clint would be convinced he’d died and gone to heaven if he wasn’t so sure he’d be sent directly to hell. They’re both moaning and Clint marvels at the familiarity they move with, like centuries couldn’t keep them from knowing each other inside and out.

“Fuck,” Bucky gasps. “God, _Steve._ Don’t stop.”

“Make him quiet, Clint,” Steve commands and Clint raises the middle finger of the arm not currently being held by Bucky. Still, he’s not specifically against helping, so he leans down within range. Bucky gets his free hand in Clint’s hair again, tugs him down so hard the buzz of pain makes Clint moan against his lips. He’s so hard he can barely stand it, the heat burning him from the inside out as Bucky bites at his lip so sharp it nearly draws blood.

“You look good like this,” Steve says, a little reverent. “Both of you.”

Well, _that_ doesn’t help his situation. Bucky must catch onto him slipping a hand down to touch himself because he yanks Clint back by his hair again, gaze sliding down Clint’s body like a physical weight to look at where he’s got his fingers wrapped around his dick. Clint’s aware he probably looks like a hot mess, sweat damp on his brow and desperate, but Bucky isn’t much better, unfocused and flushed as his teeth sink into his own lip.

Bucky’s expression is almost too much and Clint uses the slacker grip on his hair to his own advantage, glances back at Steve. That’s just as bad as the previous view, if not worse, because Steve looks like he’s losing his mind and the sight of him fucking into Bucky is _incredible_.

“Fucking Christ,” Clint breathes out. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Says _you,_ ” Bucky grits out. “Goddamn ridiculous biceps, got hard just watching you shoot.”

Steve just grins like he’s gotten everything he could want in his life and gestures for Clint to come closer to kiss him. It’s very _Steve_ , a little possessive and dominating, but he’s gentler than usual, like he’s slowing it down now he gets to keep Clint to himself. And Bucky, of course, who’s decided his metal fingers are better used fitting between Clint’s fingers on his dick. Clint’s breath hitches and his hand speeds up, leaning back again so he can watch the way Bucky arches and comes untouched, hear Steve moan. It’s too much, and Bucky’s fingers get tighter as he shivers.

“You should come on me,” Bucky says shakily. “Clint, please.”

Steve makes a noise at that, like he thinks it’s the hottest idea he’s ever heard, and the mixture of that and Bucky’s face as he’s being fucked has Clint losing it as well. He only barely gets the presence of mind to follow Bucky’s request, gasps for breath as he shakes through his orgasm.

Clint gets enough of his brain back to open his eyes blearily and take in the absolute mess that is Bucky Barnes painted with his own cum _and_ Clint’s before Steve grunts and comes as well.

Bucky shudders. “Jesus Christ.”

“Make up for the last seventy years?” Clint ventures with a shaky smile.

“Don’t know,” Bucky says, but he looks like he’s having difficulties putting his words together. “Might have to try it again in a few hours so I can make up my mind.”

Steve snorts. Bucky’s gaze slips down to where he is and Clint watches his expression shift to something soft, warm and a little knowing. “No more bullshit about this being unfair or mean or unbalanced, Rogers?”

“I can’t promise anything,” Steve answers, apologetic. “But I’ll try.”

“When do I get to join your harem, Cap?”

Tony’s quip gets a magnetic arrow thrown at him. It sticks to the arc reactor through the black material of his tank top and then he looks back at the three of them sprawled out on the couch. Clint lazily reaches for another arrow from where he’s tucked under Steve’s arm, his other hand occupied with stroking through a napping Bucky’s hair where he’s lying with his head in Steve’s lap. And yeah, maybe from an outside perspective they _do_ look like Steve’s harem, but then again if it was up to Steve they’d all be moping still.

The second arrow sticks to Tony’s chest as well and he holds his arms up in surrender, retreats to a safe distance. “Probably for the best,” he concedes. “I need all the attention, all the time.”

“We’ve noticed, Tony,” Steve says with amusement. He turns to press a kiss on Clint’s hair and Clint remembers the first time he’d done that, the wave of confusion that had swamped him. This time, he just feels warm inside, feels the pleased little smile curl his lips upward. Tony rolls his eyes like he’s disgusted with them and stalks off, probably to annoy someone else now he’s not getting a rise out of Steve or Clint.

“I found a raccoon outside and left it in his room,” Bucky mutters against Steve’s thigh.

Clint cackles. “Barnes, you are my _favourite._ ”

“That’s not fair,” Steve says. “I made pancakes this morning. With blueberries.”

Bucky rolls over so he can look up at Steve, unimpressed. “And they were burned. Black, even.”

“He tried,” Clint says sympathetically.

“It’s about time,” Natasha comments as she walks into the room. Clint watches as she drops down into an armchair opposite them, arms crossed and lips set in an unimpressed line. She looks like their inability to navigate a poly relationship before now is a personal offense, and Clint would be worried except there’s something proud in her eyes. She’s happy for them, he realizes, and can’t help grinning at her. Natasha rolls her eyes. “You’re all happy, then?”

“We’re doing our best,” Steve answers.

“Good,” she says, and the threat there is as blatant.

Clint’s got hope for them.


End file.
